


A Monumental Relief

by mycapeisplaid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Penis Size, ambiguous post-S3 timeline, medically unsound practices, the return of John's biologically stubborn anus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock makes a suggestive comment, John's imagination runs wild.  Sometimes, reality is much, much better than fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Monumental Relief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atiki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiki/gifts).



> This work is for Atiki, who wrote a silly exchange about Sherlock’s “little peen” a while ago now. Something about it struck a cord with me, maybe after seeing photos on Penis Friday (ouch, oh my God no!) or reviewing the few penises I have seen in my life which were all rather small (yet perfectly capable of getting the job done well). 
> 
> Anyway, I somehow managed to scrape together some time to write this. And it was HARD. I scrapped several intros and my poor beta team had to really beat it (ha ha) into shape. Big thanks to CaitlinFairchild. Blessings upon you, CanolaCrush and Betty Swallocks.

A Monumental Relief

 

They stood there on the precipice, catching their breath and looking down on the grisly scene. The suspect-cum-victim was one Robbie Kerr who had been harvesting unwitting bird-watchers and hikers with homemade traps for several months in the Galloway Forest Park. Kerr lay face down, the pike having gone straight through his side, tearing a hole in his jacket. 

“Is he…?” asked Sherlock, reaching into his pocket for his mobile.

A faint moan floated up from the pit below.

John surveyed the scene. “I can’t get down there. We’re going to need help.” He was just glad that it was the serial killer who’d ended up getting skewered--it was only a miracle Sherlock hadn’t joined him. At the climax of the case, as they’d chased Kerr on foot through the park, John had watched as Kerr mysteriously vanished ahead of them. Then he’d seen Sherlock windmilling about, feet slipping, and then John was there, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock’s coat and pulling him back. Thank God for his reflexes.

Sherlock had already dialled 999. “I’ll text you the GPS location,” he was saying. “If you want him alive, you’d best come quickly. Oh. And bring a ladder.”

That had been around 4pm. 

It was currently 3am. John shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He and Sherlock had been waiting in a maddeningly bland waiting room for their suspect to come out of surgery. A stalwart nurse had told Sherlock that on no terms should he interfere with the process until Kerr was declared medically stable. Both of their phones were dead, and Sherlock had given up on deducing as a means of entertainment; instead he was currently devouring the reading material left out for patients’ families: car magazines, dated copies of _Reader’s Digest_ , periodicals for women-of-a-certain-age, month-old copies of _The Sun_. He was currently reading _Glamour_ , which he had declared the best of the lot and subsequently saved for last. 

John was nodding off when Sherlock muttered something.

“Hmm?”

“What?”

“You said something. Just then.”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose I did. Sorry.”

John frowned. Sherlock rarely muttered anything. If he had something to say, he made sure _everyone_ heard it. 

“Did you find something interesting, then?”

Sherlock said nothing; John was forced to open his eyes. He peeked blearily at the headline: “What Drives Him Wild In Bed.” Good God. He shut his eyes again and began to nod back off.

But yet…

John could count on one hand how many times Sherlock had ever said anything of a personal nature about sex. His curiosity overcame his fatigue. He opened his eyes again and stretched. 

“What was it you said? Just now. About the article.”

Sherlock looked momentarily uncomfortable. “Nothing important. I was simply disagreeing. The author suggests... Here, see for yourself.”

John looked at the list of 10 things that would supposedly “drive a man wild.” They included suggestions such as “use your hair to tease his body” and “feel the chill with an ice cube!” Some were actually decent pieces of advice, such as “nibble his nipples” and “don’t forget the bollocks!” -- both of which were high on John’s “yes” list. He passed the magazine back. 

“That’s pretty standard stuff,” he said. 

“I suppose.”

“You’re not... searching for advice, are you?”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise. “This is a _women’s_ magazine,” he said, as if that explained everything. 

John supposed it did, after a fashion. He stood, stretched, went to the gents’ to empty his bladder and splashed some water on his face. When he returned, Sherlock was reading something about the season’s latest trend in high heels (platforms are out!). A much safer topic. Nothing that might become suggestive.

Settling back in his chair, John realised that Sherlock hadn’t actually told him anything. He should leave it alone. They didn’t chat about sex. Let it go, he told himself.

But he couldn’t.

“You disagreed. With...” John nodded to the magazine in Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock closed it and turned to him. “Yes,” he said. “The author makes it sound incredibly complicated. For some people it’s considerably less so.”

“For some people...meaning you, I take it.”

Sherlock held his gaze. “Yes.” 

“So what is it that…?” John couldn’t quite manage ‘drives you wild in bed.’

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, questioning.

“You know what? Forget it. Sorry.”

“All right.” Sherlock reopened the magazine and went back to the shoes. 

Time passed in the slow, syrupy way it tended to pass in the small hours of the morning. John’s mind wandered. What on earth would drive Sherlock ‘wild in bed’? Something off-the-wall, no doubt. But what if… what if it were something totally mundane? Maybe what drove Sherlock wild was a firm grip on his hips, or a tongue to that spot where neck met shoulder...

“You really want to know, don’t you?” Sherlock suddenly asked, sounding somewhere between self-conscious and smugly amused. 

John sighed. “Yes. I guess I do.” It came out a bit louder than necessary. 

“I’m not sure this is the proper milieu…” Sherlock looked around the room. There was an older woman in the corner who was reading a book but had earbuds in, a feverish teen a few seats away who was too incoherent to care, and his half-asleep mother. “But, if you must know…” He leaned in conspiratorially and whispered in John’s ear, “The exact moment of penetration.”

Sherlock’s breath on his ear -- and the words, oh God -- affected John immediately: the waiting area became instantly too hot. His face flushed and sweat prickled under his arms. He swallowed hard as Sherlock leaned back into his own space. 

“That,” Sherlock clarified, “is what drives me wild in bed.”

“Um,” said John, swallowing again. “OK. That’s...” The blood that had flushed his face was now travelling south at an alarming rate. “I, uh. Well.” He seemed to have lost all capacity for rational speech. Jesus.

Across the room, a door opened. John had never been so irritated with -- and yet thankful for -- the interruption of the officer in charge coming to tell them the suspect was ready for questioning. Sherlock bounded out of his seat. John took a deep breath, casually adjusted himself, and followed.

***

The case was fairly open-and-shut now that the suspect was in custody. Sherlock was brilliant, as usual, and the suspect --now minus a spleen-- admitted his guilt readily. Both of them were ready to head back to London and not stay another day in Glasgow, and so they caught the 10am train. 

It was a four and a half hour journey with Virgin West Coast. John had brought a paperback to read on the train, but he couldn’t stay focussed. He wished he had the same memory deletion technique as Sherlock did, for those five words -- “the exact moment of penetration” -- were now playing on a loop in his head. Maybe Sherlock had found someone. Maybe he’d had dangerous, unprotected sex with strangers while he was on his latest drug binge. Maybe he and Irene Adler, wherever she was these days, practiced recreational whipping followed by super-sexy deduction sessions. What had become clear was that Sherlock had _penetrated_ people before and that he not only liked it, it was _the thing that drove him wild in bed_. 

Sherlock fell asleep somewhere just north of Liverpool. As a general rule Sherlock hated sleeping on trains, but without the case to keep his mind occupied, the transport demanded rest. He’d fought it for a good hour, too, before John had shrugged out of his jacket and handed it over. “Pillow,” he said. “I’ll wake you.” Sherlock had taken the jacket and balled it up, tucked it against the window and leaned against it. Still, his body was tense and alert. “I’ll stay awake,” John said softly. “Just rest.” Mollified, Sherlock had relaxed and was asleep almost instantly, leaving John alone with thoughts that were not appropriate for public transport. Especially on Virgin trains. 

Beside him, Sherlock slept deeply. As tired as he was himself, John felt a certain duty to stand guard, to protect the person he held most dear. They were together now for the long haul, he figured. Things were different now, the tension and pain of the past slipped away behind them, not forgotten, but less harsh, like rocks polished by the sluice of a free-flowing stream. Once again they were being drawn together, the chemistry between them flaring to life. John felt the pull of attraction borne not only of love and respect but also of desire; feelings once buried finally being allowed to percolate to the surface. 

There had been touching. Hands to shoulders, fingertips to fingertips, arms touching as they sat together as they did now. John wanted more. What would it be like to strip it all away, the wool and cotton, to be skin to skin? To hold Sherlock’s large, fine-boned hand in his own, to trace his brow with the backs of his fingers? To hold him tight, to kiss his lips? To be held down by someone so much taller than he was? To massage his giant feet? John smiled at the last image. He loved Sherlock’s long, pale feet, so often on display around the flat. What would it be like? To make love with someone so much bigger than himself? 

Jesus God, _bigger_. 

If he were proportionate, which, if John’s experience in the medical field was any indicator, he would be; Sherlock’s penis was simply bound to be bigger than John’s. What if Sherlock were _huge_? _The exact moment of penetration…_ John stared straight ahead and tried to ignore his racing pulse. What if...they were sexually incompatible? His experiences with penetration in that particular area were limited to a single finger (and once, he recalls with great fondness, a tongue). What if Sherlock simply wouldn’t _fit_? 

John managed to “what if” for forty minutes straight, and by the time they were pulling into King’s Cross station he was so aroused -- and worried -- that he nearly forgot to wake up the subject of his fantasies. He took several deep breaths and shifted in his seat, trying to make his erection less...erect… before gently tapping Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock awoke with a flutter of eyelids and smacking of lips before he stretched and sat up, unfolding John’s jacket and returning it. John took it and placed it over his lap. He could feel its warmth bleeding through his jeans.

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, cracking his neck. “I’m starving. Should we go out?”

“Actually,” John replied, “bit desperate for a shower.” John hoped he actually stank rather than have Sherlock know what he had been thinking of. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you are,” he said as the train slid to a stop. “I’ll pick up something. You head home.”

“Leaving me with the bags then?”

Sherlock smirked as they stood up. “There’s a good man,” he said, sliding past John and into the already crowded aisle. “Catch up with you soon.”

***

John had his shower. He had a fast but sordid affair with the conditioner and nearly bit a hole through his lip when he came.

Sherlock was already home by the time John got out, unpacking paper bags of what smelled like Korean takeaway.

“Better?” he asked as John slid past him to retrieve the wine glasses.

“Yeah, thanks.”

 _He knows,_ thought John. That’s what that was last night, that little titbit of information. Sherlock’s way of passing the ball into John’s court. But what was it? A hint? A flirtation? A suggestion? Was this _the moment_ , the sign he had been looking for? Hardly romantic, or dramatic. It would be just like Sherlock to save a declaration of love for just the wrong moment, like the next time they were kidnapped or facing certain death. Just how did one cross the threshold from friends to lovers? Would it happen organically, during a cuddle on the couch, perhaps, or should he plan the event, think of the exact words to say? He didn’t know. Yet. Not tonight, at least. John had …bigger… things to think about. 

“To a job well done,” John toasted once they sat across from one another at their small table. 

“To many more,” Sherlock smiled. There was a twinkle in his eye, something soft and lovely, and John couldn’t help but fall in love just a little more. 

Under the table, Sherlock’s big feet were on either side of his own smaller ones. They were touching, just slightly, not rubbing, but just there, present, close. John thought about their shoes lined up together in the hallway just outside the door, John’s small brogues next to Sherlock’s giant Chelsea boots, Sherlock’s massive greatcoat hanging next to his own waxed cotton jacket. And there, across from him, Sherlock’s long, large fingers twirled the stem of his wine glass, raised it to his plump lips, brought the liquid into the enormous cavern of his mouth and swallowed it down the solid column of his throat. Everything about Sherlock was _big_ , from his skull to his toes.

So Sherlock Holmes had an enormous cock. John would just have to learn to take it.

***

The week following the Case of the Skewered Scotsman, Sherlock occupied himself with an experiment while John explored a hypothesis of his own. Unwilling to use his laptop (which Sherlock still frequently borrowed when he couldn’t be arsed to get his own), he began investigating his newfound interest in bottoming by watching gay porn on his phone (which Sherlock never borrowed as his own model was a later upgrade). He’d seen it once or twice before while drunk and found that it wasn’t necessarily the specifics of the videos that helped get him off; rather it was just watching --and listening-- to people fucking, regardless of gender, that aroused him. His imagination would usually take over from there. He didn’t ever search specifically for certain acts, and he had his old standby hetero porn, a collection of 20 videos or so, that were familiar and reliable. It was time for something new.

Unfortunately, his week-long attempt at pornography-based research was less enlightening than he’d hoped. His first attempt was cut short by Mrs. Hudson needing help with rearranging her furniture, and his second by being called into work. The third time, when he actually started opening videos and watching them, he was perturbed at the ages of the men -- way too young, in his opinion. It wasn’t the least bit sexy. The fourth time he actually considered looking up the production company and asking whether the bottom needed medical attention after the thorough rogering he’d had by a man with a cock the size of a cricket bat. The fifth, sixth, and seventh times all led him to the same conclusion: most of the men in the videos were freakishly huge, their penises bordering on monstrous. Their partners, however, seemed to not only come away from the encounters without anal fissures, but they actually seemed to be having a jolly good time being reamed by input that was considerably larger than the normal output. It was disconcerting.

A minor case occupied most of their free time the second week after they’d returned from Scotland, and at its conclusion John thought that a kiss might be on the imminent horizon; John had praised Sherlock for his quick thinking and Sherlock had smiled, almost beamed, his entire face wrinkling in that way it does when he really means it, and John had wanted to reach up, to pull that face down and press their lips together, and he likely would have had they not been interrupted by the arrival of the delivery boy with their pizza.

The time was drawing nigh, he could feel it. He had better be prepared. 

***

John loved to masturbate. He always had. He became an expert around fifteen years old and hadn’t stopped since. He loved the way his penis (of average length and above-average girth) fit in his hand. He knew just the right ways to pleasure himself and found no shame in it. 

Granted, he preferred sex with others; he was good at it, for one thing. He genuinely got off on getting others off; he’d happily lick away at a woman for ages, sustained by the occasional tug on himself and her scent directly under his nose (he could put that Watson nose to good work, too, while he was at it). He loved to run his hands over his partner’s skin, teasing, or sometimes massaging, making the body loose and pliant before he bent her in half. He loved the strain of his muscles as he took someone from behind, the flex of his thighs and clenching of his buttocks. He loved lying on his back, hands roving over thighs and breasts as she rode him. 

He liked the simple act of sex, but always found it more intense when augmented by emotional attachment. One of the reasons he simply wasn’t satisfied with keeping their relationship platonic was because he wanted Sherlock to feel how much he meant to him, wanted him to know all of the things he could not say but could convey through his hands, lips, and body. He wanted Sherlock to know he was loved, and loved well. He wanted to hold him, clasp him tight, stake his claim, render him pliant, drive him wild. And if penetration was what drove Sherlock wild, John aimed to drive him right round the bend. 

Not quite a month after the Scottish case, John had written off the porn as largely useless but had managed to find several audio files that had made him hard just from the opening exchange between the lovers. One of them was of a man guiding his partner as if it were his first time. John figured it would serve as a soundtrack for phase two of his homemade step-by-step-learning-to-bottom-for-a-giant-partner programme.

Even though Sherlock was out and likely would be all day, John double-checked that his door was locked before he retrieved his recently-acquired sex aid from where he was hiding it in an old shoebox. He was proud of the fact he’d got it without Sherlock’s knowledge. It required ordering from Amazon and intercepting the parcel upon delivery; Sherlock surely would have known had John actually visited a shop that sold such accoutrements. He’d placed the item (a dildo in what he figured must be Sherlock’s size) in a clean cotton sock and inserted it into a pair of old trainers. Now, unwrapped and in his hands, it seemed much larger than he’d initially thought.

Not to be deterred, anticipation fluttered in his belly as he stripped off his clothes, grabbed his new bottle of silicone lube, his toy, and his phone. He cued up the audio file, popped in his earbuds, flipped open the cap of the lubricant, and got to work. 

The man on the audio proved to be distracting. The voice wasn’t close enough to Sherlock’s, and he didn’t want to feel rushed. Pulling the earphones out with slippery fingers, John figured he would just imagine a scenario himself. He was a bit of a writer, after all, and he knew Sherlock better than anyone else did.

“Excellent idea, John,” said Fantasy Sherlock. “Now, where were we?”

John smiled to himself. He imagined himself in Sherlock’s room, in his bed, Sherlock between his legs. “I’d love to suck you,” said Fantasy Sherlock. “May I?” John sighed and adjusted his grip on his cock, his left hand twisting around the head of his prick. “Lovely,” said Fantasy Sherlock. “And now, let me lick your hole. Yes, that’s it. Relax. Hmmm.”

Keeping his left hand on his cock, John slipped his right down between his legs, shivering as his fingertips flicked over his anus. Perfect. He kept at it for a few minutes, pleasure coiling deep in his groin, his pulse rising and breath coming faster. “Beautiful,” said Fantasy Sherlock, who somehow managed to talk and lick at the same time. John removed his fingers long enough to drizzle more lubricant over them. “I love kissing you here,” rumbled Fantasy Sherlock. “Look how your legs shake. God, I want you, to be inside you. But first, my fingers,” he said. “Just one, just to start, yes, relax, just like that. You’re so tight, John, such a tight little hole...”

John wiggled the tip of his middle finger inside -- and came off like a rocket, his stomach muscles clenching so hard he nearly doubled up.

The sheets were covered in lube, he was a wet mess, he hadn’t even touched his prostate, and the toys hadn’t even come within their intended vicinity. Yet John lay panting and smiling up at the ceiling. He could handle this whole penetration business. It was rather lovely indeed. 

***

The dildo -- a 9” long, 2.75” wide realistic masterpiece that had set him back 30 quid -- collided with the wall with a loud, rubbery thud. Panting and sweating, John lay on his bed cursing the damn thing and his body which would not, despite coaxing, meditating, relaxing, massaging, and being slicked with specially-designed numbing lube, accept it. Everything that had led up to the actual penetration had been wonderful: he’d been fantasizing about Sherlock, that the faux dick in his hands was Sherlock’s, and that Sherlock was getting off on rubbing it all over John’s perineum and arsehole. John had shivered as he worked it over himself, trembling in anticipation, and nearly came when he’d begun to nudge the thing against his hole in earnest. 

However, it simply would not _go in_. Just a bit, not even the entire head. Fantasy Sherlock was beginning to get impatient. “People do this all the time,” he rumbled. “This is what I want, what I need...just relax and let me…put...it...in...you...”

John was getting impatient himself. He’d done all the necessary preparation and used nearly half a bottle of lube. Maybe it was just years of denying his bisexuality that was holding him back, something buried away in his psyche. _Mind over matter,_ he told himself. _People like this._ He took a deep breath, bore down, and pushed the thing in.

That had been a very bad idea.

He broke out in a cold sweat when the pain hit. Gritting his teeth, he tried to relax. His erection deflated. He lay there, breathing hard, willing his body to accept it. It hurt so badly he couldn’t even conjure Fantasy Sherlock back.

Maybe he just needed to move it a bit, try a gentle thrusting. That was worse. The stretch was too much, it was so uncomfortable -- he’d reached down, pulled it out, and lobbed it across the room. It had hit the wall with a rubbery thump.

Swearing, John reached down and tenderly probed the offended area: moments before the attempted insertion, his anus had been soft and ready; now it was sore and puffy and Jesus fuck, was he bleeding? Fucking hell. He gingerly climbed out of bed, retrieved the dildo, shoved it back in the shoebox (he’d clean it later when he stopped hating it), and pulled on a pair of loose sweatpants. He needed a hot bath. And then maybe an ice pack. And a drink.

 _Well done, John, you’ve really fucked that up,_ he thought as he lowered himself into the hottest water he could stand. Thank God it was a practice run; he would have been mortified if he’d yelped in pain during what Sherlock considered the most pleasurable moment of intercourse. He should have done more research and started smaller. Too late now.

A soft tap on the door interrupted his thoughts. 

“I’m back. Mrs. Hudson made some dinner. Would you like to join us?”

John squeezed his buttocks together and grit his teeth. “Yeah. Won’t be a mo’.” 

Sherlock stared oddly at him all through the meal, but, thankfully, said nothing.

***

The second and third attempts with the dildo were just as unsuccessful as the first. 

He binned it.

***

John was growing suspicious that he was being mocked. The week after his failed sexual encounters with Sherlock Substitute, John found himself surrounded by references to sex. Everything he saw or read seemed to be about penetration; he heard the word _everywhere_ : “penetrating eyes” came from the pages of his novel; “deeply penetrating” from the muscle-pain relief cream on the telly; there was an article about “ground-penetrating radar” in a magazine, and a write-up of pesticide “penetrating the water supply” in the _Guardian_. Common objects seemed more phallic than ever; even the bananas on the counter with their gentle curve seemed to taunt him. One afternoon it seemed as if every cloud in the sky was shaped like a dick. When John changed the toilet roll, he found himself looking askance at the metal rod that held the cardboard tube. He wondered if he were developing a complex.

Meanwhile, whatever he and Sherlock were heading toward seemed to be stalled in its tracks. They’d had a row after John found several syringes in an old tea tin while he was cleaning out the kitchen. Sherlock denied that he was using again, was hurt that John would suspect it after Sherlock had promised he’d tell John if he were relapsing. Sherlock didn’t make promises lightly, John knew, but simply seeing the things were enough to make him suspect. Sherlock had yelled something about how John was “always jumping to conclusions” and angrily stormed out of the flat.

Mycroft had texted John several hours later to let him know that Sherlock was fine, had ended up at Bart’s, and was likely doing something untoward to a liver or pancreas.

When Sherlock finally returned late that night, John apologised. Sherlock nodded but said nothing and then disappeared into his room.

That had been three nights ago and they had said very little to each other since. 

Maybe it was foolish to think that they’d ever be together romantically, he thought that night as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. What they had was good. They loved each other. They were fast friends. It was enough. Wasn’t it?

John sighed. No. No, it wasn’t. He wanted to touch Sherlock; smooth his fingertips over Sherlock’s eyebrows, push his hair back from his temple, kiss the warm skin there. Rub his back, trace the scars, press his lips to the freckles. Give him solace. Give him pleasure. He wanted to feel the hairs on his legs and under his arms. He wanted to rub the tip of his nose over Sherlock’s nipples and then gently nip at them with his teeth. And most of all, he simply wanted to gather the man close, pull him in tight, and love him, love him, love him.

***

Never one to stay daunted for long, John decided to take a different approach to the problem of his stubborn anus. Perhaps he’d gone about it all wrong, starting with the largest thing possible. His bum had been so bruised and sore afterward that he wasn’t even remotely in the mood to masturbate for a good week and a half. He awoke before his alarm one morning from an erotic dream. The details were fuzzy, but his body had been into it, and he was hard and leaking. He grabbed the lube from his nightstand drawer and conjured Fantasy Sherlock.

“You like my hands,” smirked Fantasy Sherlock as John touched himself.

“You have lovely fingers,” whispered John aloud.

“Do you want them in you?”

“Yeah.”

“I love this moment,” said Fantasy Sherlock, and John’s own smaller fingers dipped lower, behind his balls. “You’re always so tight here. I’ve felt corpses looser than this.”

John frowned. Where was he coming up with this awful dialogue? “Not helping,” he murmured.

“May I lick you for a while?”

 

That was better. “Yeah. Please. That feels nice.”

John relaxed and moved his fingers, flicking, teasing, gently probing, until his hips arched off the bed and his balls began to ache. “Now,” he whispered, and pushed two fingers in.

The stretch was a bit uncomfortable, but not unbearable. He lay still and tried to relax as his body adjusted.

“Have you fingered yourself before, John?” asked Fantasy Sherlock.

“Not like this.”

“Have you touched your prostate? Made yourself leak?”

“No. Once, when I was at medical school. Strictly clinical.” 

John frowned at Fantasy Sherlock. He desperately hoped the real Sherlock was better at bedroom talk than the one in his head.

“Well let’s see where it is now, shall we? See how good I can make you feel?”

John bent a knee up and cursed his short fingers. It should be right…

...there. 

John’s eyes flew open. Fantasy Sherlock evaporated. He didn’t know what he was expecting, fireworks, maybe, or angel choirs. Instead he got a distinctly uncomfortable sensation, intense and...weird.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said to his already drooping penis. Sliding his fingers out of himself, John focussed on teasing his rim while his left hand brought his dick back to life, and while Fantasy Sherlock didn’t reappear, he managed to work himself to orgasm. At just the right moment, he pushed his fingers back in as far as he could and pressed up.

He came, but couldn’t enjoy his orgasm as he balanced between ecstasy and overwhelmingly intense discomfort. 

Prostate stimulation was right out.

That was that, then. He conceded defeat. John had failed at very few things in his life. He was rotten at the clarinet, he never could cook a perfectly hard boiled egg, he’d married an assassin, and now, he was not going to be able to please the only person he ever wanted to have sex with again in his life. 

Well, shit.

***

It took another case to get them back on track. Sherlock managed to link a ring of criminals who were cloning debit cards at petrol stations for an Iranian-based fraud syndicate. Mycroft’s people were involved, and it was dangerous, there, at the end. They arrived home unscathed but exhausted. “That was good,” said Sherlock, smiling. He turned and put both of his hands on John’s shoulders so they were face to face. “You were good.”

John tried to read his expression --Was it interest? Fondness? Flirtation?-- but couldn’t quite place it. “Yeah,” he replied, not knowing what to say. He realised his hands were hanging limply at his sides. “You weren’t so bad yourself.” He knew he was staring at Sherlock’s lips, so close to his. Was this it? The moment?

Apparently not, for Sherlock pulled away and took off his coat. “I’m going to have a bath,” he said, rubbing his prickly chin. “I’m dying for a shave.”

John meant to wait up but fell asleep on the sofa. He woke late in the morning thinking that maybe Sherlock had touched him in his sleep, placed a hand on his head, smoothed his hair. But he couldn’t be sure. He wondered what it would be like to lie with Sherlock on the sofa, both on their sides, snuggled in, snoozing on a lazy afternoon, dust motes swirling in the air while London went about its business around them. Would that be something Sherlock would even want? Would he be demonstrative? Affectionate? Or would their physical interactions take place only behind locked doors, away from public scrutiny? What was sex, exactly, to Sherlock? A biological imperative? Although Sherlock always maintained that John knew him better than anyone else, John still couldn’t predict how his friend would act, what would change, when their relationship finally moved from just friends to lovers. And how would John explain his...inadequacies...in bed? What kind of lover would Sherlock be? Attentive and thorough? Bossy and dominating? Shy and clumsy? All at once?

John sat up and stretched, dislodging his covering of tartan wool. Sherlock must have put a blanket over him last night. Smiling to himself, John wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and ventured into the kitchen to put the kettle on. There was a note stuck underneath: _Off to Kew. Lars has carnivorous plants. Return by dark. Dinner? -SH_

***

Later that night they sat in the sitting room in their respective chairs, Sherlock on his laptop and John reading the newspaper. John was focussed on a story about the spread of a new virus in South America when Sherlock made a noise. A surprised type of noise, a little exhale with just a bit of sound. 

John looked up. “What? A case?”

“No. I’ve, uh, been published.”

“Really? What was it this time? A treatise on toadstools? Oh! Did you publish that thing you were working on last month? With the Devil’s foot poison?”

John looked up when Sherlock didn’t respond. He was gazing oddly at his laptop, his eyebrows drawn together and head tipped down in the way that gave him multiple chins. “No, it’s. Just something. Nothing in particular.” He abruptly shut the computer.

John beckoned with his hand. “Let me see.”

“No.”

“No? Come on. It’s wonderful news.”

Sherlock pursed his lips as he deliberated, then, with a deep breath of resolve, passed the computer over.

“Third one down,” he said quietly.

John opened the laptop back up. He looked at Sherlock over the computer when he saw the webpage: _The Daily Grind_. The article was entitled “Ask Dr. Rami -- a Q and A with London’s leading counsellor for gay men.” Sherlock had closed his eyes and steepled his hands under his nose.

“You wrote in for advice? To _The Daily Grind_? Really?”

“Third one down,” Sherlock repeated. His voice was utterly flat.

Intrigued, John scrolled down. The third entry read:

_I believe I have fallen in love with a close friend with whom I also share a flat._

Afraid to even breathe, John looked up. He was oddly aware of the rapid increase of his pulse. A strange sensation in his chest made him briefly wonder if he was having a heart attack. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed. “Please continue,” he said. 

_I believe he feels the same. We have gone through several serious life-changing events together, the aftermath of which has proven to me that he is critical to my happiness and well-being. As far as I know, he has never had a sexual relationship with another man, but I sincerely believe he desires me as I desire him. He has a history of failed romantic relationships, and I have very little experience, if any, with love. I fear that should we attempt a relationship it could end poorly. I have been waiting for the right moment to declare my feelings but I have been told I am rather awful at saying the right thing at the right time. He is everything to me. Should I speak to him of my feelings or wait until the moment is right? Sincerely, SH_

“Sherlock,” whispered John.

“Read the answer.”

“Sherlock, what is this...what are you…?”

“Please just read the answer, John. Aloud, if you would.”

John swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and read:

“ _Dear SH, Thank you for writing. It sounds as if you and your friend share a special bond. Falling in love with a dear friend can, indeed, be complicated, and in this case maybe even more so as your friend has not had a prior same-sex intimate relationship. If you are sure that he feels the same, however, I would not suggest waiting until the ‘moment is right.’ Often, attempts to create a romantic moment fail or end up feeling contrived. Too much anticipation can put you on edge or cause unnecessary stress, especially if the outcome is not what you desire. If you have been through life-changing events together before, I’m sure you and he will be able to discuss a possible change in your relationship. I’m not promising that conversation will be easy; on the contrary, it may be awkward or stilted. If, as you say, you are not skilled in the area of personal communication, perhaps keeping things simple is the best. Any quiet moment when the two of you are both relaxed and have no pressing engagements would be an appropriate time. Grand gestures are not necessary. Be honest and open. Listen to one another. Make a decision together. Best of luck, Dr. Rami._ ”

Silence descended upon the flat. John breathed several times just to make sure he could before closing the laptop. He looked up. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed.

“Sherlock?”

Nothing.

“Sherlock, open your eyes.”

A miniscule shake of the head. No.

All of Sherlock’s senses were phenomenally honed, but his sight was by far his keenest, most reliable way of accessing information. And he didn’t want to use it? John suddenly understood. He’d seen Sherlock afraid before, his eyes wide, his brow sweaty, his lip curled in shock and revulsion. In this moment in which he’d taken the words of an advice columnist quite literally, he was terrified of its outcome.

“Well,” said John. “I don’t have any pressing engagements. We’re both relaxed. I haven’t anything planned that one could describe as grand, and I imagine our ensuing awkward and stilted conversation might be less awkward and stilted if we could possibly relocate to the sofa, where I could more easily kiss you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. 

The intense, weird, joyous feeling continued to radiate from John’s gut, a delightful yet nervous fluttering that brought back memories of first times: a kiss, a surgery, a battle. A chase through dark alleyways after a murderous cabbie, through mist-filled hollows, through the web of a spider. It propelled him from his chair. He crossed the few steps between them, knelt beside Sherlock, and placed his hand on his knee as he’d done once before. He didn’t mind then, and he didn’t mind now.

“Keeping things simple _is_ best,” Sherlock quoted, and then his face rather quivered, his lips doing some sort of simultaneous smile-frown thing that John would remember for the rest of his life. 

They stood together and moved to the sofa, where they simply held one another for a long, long time.

***

Sherlock lay on his back, John half on top of him. John liked the tight, secure feeling of being sandwiched between the leather cushions and Sherlock’s body. Sherlock was warm and smelled wonderful, and John took deep lungfuls of his scent through his nose, tasting the air. Sherlock smelled masculine and downright sexy. They hadn’t even done anything beyond sharing a few gentle kisses and Sherlock was aroused -- John could hear his heartbeat pounding away, saw the heaviness of his eyelids. As for himself, he’d been hard at their first brush of lips but was deeply satisfied in just lying there, together, at last.

“I am perfectly content,” said Sherlock into John’s hair. “To stay like this.”

“Yeah,” said John, toying with one of the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt.

“Take it slowly.”

John opened his eyes and lifted his head. He had a rather charming view up Sherlock’s nose. He studied the shape of each nostril. One was slightly smaller than the other. How had he never noticed? What other secrets of Sherlock’s body would he uncover? He wanted to nuzzle his navel and run his hands up his hairy calves. He wondered what a flat chest would feel like against his own. Would it be pleasurable to rub their pricks together? What would Sherlock taste like? John wanted to know. He’d waited this long, but he would gladly wait some more as long as he could just be close to him like this.

“OK.”

John closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock breathe. He rather liked the sound.

“But I wouldn’t be averse to taking things further. If you want. I’ve been tested if you’re concerned.”

“OK.” John unbuttoned the button he’d been playing with; the little white pearlescent thing must struggle daily to keep Sherlock’s fitted shirts actually closed. He unbuttoned another, slipped his fingers inside, touched Sherlock’s stomach. It was firm and smooth. “Did you have something particular in mind?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Can I keep touching you?”

“Yes.”

John removed his hand to unbutton another button, this one further up. Free of restrictions, John explored Sherlock’s chest, the dichotomy of warm, smooth skin and soft, sparse hair. Sherlock arched into the touch when John’s fingers found a nipple.

“Do you like that?” John whispered.

“Yes. Sometimes I pinch them when I masturbate. I don’t mind a firm touch. Are yours sensitive too?”

“Not as much as yours are, I don’t think,” John said. John explored the texture of the nub, petted the little hairs around it, before he gave the nipple a gentle tweak. Sherlock sighed. “I do like them sucked, though.”

He gave Sherlock’s nipple one final tease before sliding his hand down, tracing his ribs, and stopping at his trousers. Sherlock’s breathing quickened.

“Can I touch you here?”

“Yes. There is one thing I need to tell you, though. I think you already know what it is.”

John tried not to smile. _Caught_. “Why do you think that?”

“You’ve spent the past two months staring at my crotch.”

John laughed a bit, nuzzled Sherlock’s neck. “I have to admit I’m… intrigued.”

“It’s...not something that’s ever troubled me before, but I’ve been led to believe that it might be an issue.”

Only Sherlock would find an enormous penis embarrassing. “It’s OK,” assured John. 

“It might be a deal breaker.”

John stroked Sherlock’s face, temple to chin, before leaning in for another gentle kiss. “I can handle it. Let me see you. Touch you.”

Sherlock relaxed and kissed back, his tongue slick against John’s own.

Gathering his courage, John slipped his hand under the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, his fingertips working their way under the elastic of his pants, through the warm, crisp hair of his groin, closer and closer to what was sure to be an absolutely gigantic…

...John’s hand stilled, closed around hot flesh. The breath he hadn’t realised he was holding came out in a rush. 

Sherlock jerked away, taking John’s hand with him. “This was a stupid idea,” Sherlock muttered, scrambling to get away. John was momentarily afraid of spraining his wrist. He managed to retract it from Sherlock’s trousers before he broke something.

“What? Wait!”

“You’re _disappointed_ ,” he spat.

“No, wait, you’ve got it all…” John reached for Sherlock’s arm, which he shook off.

“Maybe I should write for advice about how to…”

“...wrong, Sherlock, you’re wrong…”

“...please a raging size queen!!”

Sherlock managed to wrestle away. He stood, glaring down at John, and tried to stuff his shirt back into his trousers. His hair was a mess, his cheeks were red, and his eyes were full of hurt and indignation. 

John couldn’t help it. He began to laugh.

“Raging size queen? What? Did you get that from a magazine? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, turn around and _observe_. I’m not disappointed, you twat. Not in the least.”

Sherlock froze for a moment before turning around. John tried to suppress his laughter, but couldn’t completely force down the giggle that swelled in his throat. He felt himself smiling, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

“You’re...relieved?” Sherlock finally said.

John beckoned him back; he went. “God, yes. Monumentally relieved,” said John, taking Sherlock’s large hand and kissing the knuckles. “Come here. Sit down. Let me explain. ‘Raging size queen’. Hmmph. Oh my God, Sherlock, if you only knew.”

“Tell me.”

John sighed and turned toward Sherlock. “What you said. In Scotland.”

“Yes.”

“About, uh, what drives you wild in bed.”

“The exact moment of penetration. Yes, I remember. What about it?”

John shivered once more at the words. “Well, I was.” He huffed a laugh. “Overly concerned, I suppose. I’d never really done much exploration with it, and…”

“And what?” Sherlock took John’s hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb. It felt lovely. 

“I jumped to a very wrong conclusion.”

“You...thought I was...disproportionately large?”

“Something like that. Yeah. Huge, actually. A real behemoth. Biggest dick in London.”

Sherlock actually chuckled. “I admit I can be a colossal dick but that does not necessarily mean that I have one. Rather the opposite, I’m afraid.”

John smiled wryly. Point taken. “So I took a very scientific approach,” he continued. “You would understand, of course.”

“And your conclusion?”

John tried to hide his embarrassment but felt the heat creep into his face in spite of himself. “I am incredibly uptight,” he said with a laugh. “That, and I’m not sure I’ll ever enjoy anal sex. Had a bit of an unfortunate experience with a substantial rubber cock.”

Sherlock kissed the top of his head. “I’m afraid you have reached the entirely wrong conclusion about my preferences.”

“Have I?”

“Hm-hmm. As fine as I think your arse is -- I can’t wait to get your trousers off, by the way -- I have no intention of penetrating it. Of course, unless you want me to. Kiss me again?” John did. “Perhaps I should have clarified. Not that I’ve had a lot of experience in this area. It’s been a very long time since I have been sexually active. But I’m rather keen on the idea of you penetrating _me_. I’ve fantasised about that moment for years now.”

“Really?”

“Hmm. There’s a pressure, and then a yielding. It’s exquisite. I’m very sensitive there. Would you like to find out?”

“God yes,” he breathed.

“I’d rather hoped you’d say that.” Sherlock smiled then, a shy smile that John nipped at with his own lips. 

“We don’t have to...right now,” said John. “I mean, I’m game, always, but this is a big step and… I don’t even think I have any…”

“I don’t believe I was specific with the exact method of penetration,” Sherlock said, a blush beginning to spread up his neck and over his cheeks. “You must be skilled at digitally finding a prostate.”

“Oh God, Sherlock.”

“Come to bed with me,” Sherlock whispered. “Touch me. Please.”

John didn’t need to be asked twice.

***

As it turned out, Sherlock had a beautiful smaller-than-average penis. John found it fit rather well in his mouth, and he did not gag or sputter through his first blow job. In fact, he found he could go for ages without his jaw aching whatsoever, of which was glad, as Sherlock tasted amazing. That small penis was perfectly capable of shooting load after load across John’s chest, his face, his arse, his own larger-than-average penis. John loved the way they looked together, the way they both fit in Sherlock’s hands. John found he loved frottage, loved to watch that slim cock rub against his own as Sherlock rocked above him. He loved to watch it bounce as Sherlock rode him. As it turned out, that small prick felt lovely rubbing against his hole, although he found he didn’t particularly enjoy anything _inside_ it. Which was fine for Sherlock, who willingly wriggled his arse in the air and begged --or sometimes demanded-- John fill him full, a task John performed with love, reverence, and often a bit of wickedness. He too loved that moment when he guided himself to Sherlock’s arsehole, teased him with the glans a bit, then sunk in, very, very slowly, so they could both savour the exact...moment...of... penetration.

**Author's Note:**

> At one point in the betaing process, CC suggested Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything For Love" should be this piece's theme song. Accepted.


End file.
